Transformation
by bornatexasgirl
Summary: A collection of one-offs from my story, 'Metamorphosis'.
1. The Prodigal Son

"Well, you finally returned."

Winston's skepticism is clear - and not completely unfounded, given it is Christopher Chance. If there was one thing the ex-cop had learned over the year, it was to maintain a healthy level of doubt where his colleague is concerned. Surprises abound with the ex-assassin turned vigilante and being unprepared for whatever he decided to throw your way left you looking like an ameteur, something he had fallen victim to many times in the past. To his utter shock, his doubts about the return of the "prodigal son" (he uses this term very loosely), are not returned with biting sacasm, but instead with a humble acknowledgement of wrong-doing.

"Look, I'm sorry I left." his eyes shift sideways, looking at the elevator as if it can provide him with the answers he needs, before his eyes once again find Winston's. "I had to, Winston."

"I know." Winston nods. And it is true, he does know, but it is so very rare to see Chance squirm for any reason and he'd like to enjoy the moment. "I wasn't expecting you back for another four or five months. After that, I figure Ilsa could hunt you down and drag your scruffy ass back."

"One time!"

His splutter is enough to break the ice. Like the old friends they were, they seem to pick up where they left off, sharing a quiet laugh and agreeing to reconvene back in the conference room after Chance has, had the opportunity to shower and change his clothes. Winston waits patiently in the conference room while his friend scrubs away the grime of the last three weeks, although he suspects it's going to take a lot more than a bar of soap to scrub away the mental grime, he's sure has accumulated from Chance's encounter with the Old Man - assuming he found him.

"It's quiet around here, where is everybody?" it's when he makes his casual entrance into the conference room that Winston sees how much the last few weeks have aged him. He's tired and gaunt in a way that suggests he isn't eating properly, or at all, if he dared to stress his body that much. While it isn't in his nature to notice the way clothes fit, he can't help but note that Chance's shirts are looser and his jeans baggier.

The last three weeks hadn't been kind to him.

"I don't know where Guerrero is. He disappeared not long after you did." he makes a vague motion with his hand, as if to indicate distance. It's with a roll of his eyes that he mentions the whereabouts of their youngest colleague. "I think Ames is in Vegas. Last time I heard from her, I think I heard slot machines in the background."

"I'll call her." Chance laughs, collapsing in one of the chairs next to his friend. "Let her have a few more hours of fun before I make her haul her ass back to work."

"Chance - "

"Winston, don't say it." Chance drawls warningly. "Just don't."

"I'm looking at you right now and I'd say you haven't been eating properly." Winston counters, his voice low and dangerous, daring his colleague to defy him. "If at all. You can't just come back and expect to go back to work."

"Not eating is nothing new for me."

He isn't quite sure what he was expecting, but he knows Chance's mumbled confession isn't it. And, the fact that he knows Chance isn't lying certainly isn't helping matters. He's heard some of the lighter tales of what happened during Chance's time with the Old Man, but before that, he doesn't know. He could probably use old police force resources to dig up what little there is left of him in the system, but it had never been crucial that he do so, so he had chosen to leave Chance's past in the past.

"Chance."

"I was on the streets before the Old Man picked me up." Chance shrugs it off nonchalantly, looking down at the conference table. "I was hungry a lot. It wasn't something I could help, so I adapted. I learned to live with being hungry. It's what made me a good assassin. I could adapt, I could take on new identities, learn to live in situations that would kill most people."

"Did you find him?" it's easier to change the subject than to dwell on Chance's revelation about his less than stellar childhod.

"Yeah." Chance nods, "he's in a bungalow in the middle of the desert."

"Not exactly where I pictured him." Winston laughs outright - better to laugh, than to say nothing and potentially make things awkward. "But, you didn't?"

It's more of what Chance doesn't say that tells the story. He doesn't pretend to lie and brag that he had killed him, that he had gotten rid of the Old Man once and for all. He doesn't even move his head to confirm or deny Winston's assumption that he hadn't killed the Old Man. He knows the truth and there's no point in hiding it from Winston. "I couldn't."

"Ah." Winston nods understandingly.

"He was right there in front of me, Winston. I could have shot him but I couldn't make myself pull the trigger." Chance confesses softly, "I know he deserves it and probably a lot worse, but not from me. It would have made things different. I would have been that guy again."

"That guy is dead." Winston shakes his head. "Killing the person who created him won't bring him back."

"In a way, it would have. Killing him would make me exactly what he wanted. A killing machine. No morals, no empathy." this is more than he's ever admitted to, at least as far as his feelings were concerned but Winston deserves to know why the Old Man could pose a potential threat to them in the future, as frustrating as it may be. "Leaving him alive is just as bad as killing him, but I'd rather know he's out there.."

"Than live with killing him, yeah, I get it." he's not pretending, either. He'd be lying if he said that as a cop, there weren't times when he felt more like killing some of the horrid monsters he captured, than giving them metal bracelets and tossing them in a cell, just to get lost in the tangled tentacles of a corrupt justice system. But, he couldn't. He knew he wouldn't have been able to live with himself and while it had been very tempting to think about, in the end his moral compass had never let him stray from what was right. "I'm going to go make some calls, maybe order some late breakfast, any preferences?"

"Nah." Chance shakes his head.

Wait.

There is something on Chance's neck and if he isn't mistaken, it is a bite mark. _Oh. _Well, not only did it explain Ilsa's tardiness (the woman was nothing if not punctual), but it also explained Chance's behavior. The upward swing of his mood toward something that could be mistaken as cheerful and the lack of guilt he usually had weighing on him where she was concerned. Not that Winston cared. Hell, he thinks he should be more shocked but nothing surprises him out of those two, anymore. That said, he was going to have a little fun with this.

"Well, welcome back." Winston stands up from his chair and starts out of the room, tossing his comment over his shoulder like a chef throwing salt for good luck. "Ilsa must have really liked having you home. You should put something on that bite."

Chance's curse reverberates through the warehouse.

* * *

**Wait, what? I wrote something that didn't involve Chance and Ilsa kissing?! Wow. Even I didn't think I could pull this off and I'm still not sure I managed it, but hey. It's not up to me, now is it? Nope. That is up to you, my darling readers. Enjoy and indulge my muse its twisted fantasy that has it convinced that I will write more like this. (Maybe not twisted, but a little far off at any rate.) Leave me some love, Dolls!**

**Love ya, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove **


	2. Grease and Gunpowder

There is a distinct difference between having sex and defying the laws of the cosmos, if such thing existed.

In the past hour, they've done the latter three times. That's not to say either of them saw planets, far-flung nebulae, or entire galaxies, although the vision of something celestial was entirely possible given the light he had seen behind his eyelids when they were through. There had been a rather broad expanse of time spent just simply acquainting themselves with each other physically; working out what hurt, what felt good, and what had emotional boundaries that needn't be crossed in the bedroom. Patience had soon worn thin and a sharp pang of _want _had driven them both to go just a bit higher, take what the other had to give, able to give as well as receive.

No scar had gone unexplored, examined intimately, and kissed thoroughly, until it was too much for both of them. He tells her how he got the hooked, pointed scar on his back from a Ngulu blade and she tells him about the tangled web of scars on her knees, how she had slipped on the ice that covered her parents' front porch during Ireland's icy winters. Heavy breaths accompany the story of his tattoo, how reckless he had been to get it, but how it had given him a sense of identity, something he desparately longed for. She doesn't say anything, just traces the tattoo with her tongue, until he's gasping for breath. His identity seemed like such a trivial matter when there were cosmic laws to be broken and body parts to be lavished with attention.

He stays the night, only for her. It is difficult to ignore the raw exposure of letting his guard down for her. To let her see him with all of his scars, to open himself up to her emotionally, had been a big step for him. But, she had been accepting, and just as willing to open up to him. There were still parts of themselves that they had chosen to keep barricaded, unwilling to let the other see, for the sake of not feeling stripped of something so personal. There are things he doesn't tell her, like Katherine Walters, and there are things she chooses to keep from him, such as how her marriage to Marshall hadn't always been a happy one. These are too personal for them to share; too uncomfortable but that's okay. They've shared enough and when they curl around each other, spent but satisfied, they find they don't mind the vulnerability so much.

When he wakes the next morning, it's to the smell of coffee.

The sheets are wrinkled beneath him, damp with sweat and sex, and when he rolls out of bed to re-dress before heading downstairs, he wonders just how Ilsa managed to get up without him realizing it. He tugs on his shirt and jeans, before heading downstairs to fuel up on coffee before he has to be at the warehouse to face Winston. Guerrero won't mention it and he doubts Ames even realized he left, just happy to not have to deal with a mission and Winston and Guerrero arguing.

He finds her sitting at her kitchen island, long legs crossed elegantly, and her tousled curls hiding her face from view as she signs papers and sips her coffee. He doubts she realizes the effect she has on him, especially after the night they've just had, but he chooses not to mention it, given the circumstances. There's another cup of coffee, still steaming with heat, across from her; an open invitation to join her and for once, he's going to take it.

When he walks by, she catches that scent; even the smell of sex can't cover what must ooze out of his every pore. He looks disheveled, fresh from the depths of sleep and feeling much better after last night. When he sits across from her, accepting her silent invitation, she continues signing papers, even as his eyes watch her and his very presence throws her off balance. There is no conversation and there needn't be any; they'd said all they needed to the night before. He leaves after he finishes his coffee, taking his keys and phone, but conveniently forgets his duffel bag. It's either a sign he's sticking around for a while, or that he wanted her around the office today. She gets dressed for work and grabs her things to leave, choosing to leave his bag in the foyer. It presents her with an opportunity to invite him back to get it and she'd like to have him in her home again as soon as possible.

His duffel sits in her foyer for a week.

Her sheets smell of grease and gunpowder that same week.


	3. Silk and Scars

Her dress pools on the floor in a puddle of eggplant silk and gold metal. She's soft but angular and her stomach is flat but delicately carved muscles ripple beneath the skin. He couldn't help but notice the dancer's calves and the way her hips met her thighs in a slope of bronze skin. His thumb rubs circles on the protrusion of her hip bone, covered with a thin strap of lace. He lets his hands skim up, across her abdomen and his fingers trace a myriad of swirling shapes across her ribs, around to her back. He's not sure why, but he needs to feel them, to see them. He knows where they are - if she thinks he hadn't memorized their exact location, the first moment he saw them, then she didn't know him.

"Ilsa." his voice is a low, steely growl; heavy with need, with arousal, but strained.

He needn't ask. She knows what he wants and she's happy to oblige. Heaven knows she's seen plenty of his scars; in fact, she dreads to think of how he had acquired the one she had just had her mouth on. Without a word, she turns to face the wall and lets him see the evidence of just how rough her childhood had been. He knows the story behind them, she'd told him once, standing in the middle of an icy forest just on the outskirts of Belfast. But, he wants to do what she had done for him.

The tips of his fingers tickle the back of her neck when he moves her curls out of the way and settles his mouth where her hair had been. One hand holds her hair while the other holds her bicep; his mouth is hot as it scrapes the skin of her neck, along her shoulder, curling around the joint where shoulder meets arm, as he works his way to her scars. She shudders when his mouth finds them, scraping with his teeth, before soothing with the warm moisture of his lips. He hooks a thumb into her bra strap to move it out of the way. The scars are light; a buttery tint compared to the rest of her and when he nips at the tissue, he finds it's a little harder, rougher than the rest of her.

And, it makes him feel just a bit better about his own scars being so rough.

She finally undoes a button and her lips follow his collarbone to the newly exposed skin. He's on the verge of panic when he realizes where her mouth is; he isn't particularly proud of that scar. She traces the scar with her tongue and scrapes her teeth along the silvery tissue. His heart hammers a heavy tattoo against his ribcage, the remnant of a bad time in his life suddenly erogenous and as she is quick to demonstrate, something she rather likes exploring. He tries not to think about how he's going to explain them, if she asks. Instead, he directs his focus back to her body, his fingers seeking out and tracing her own scars.

_"Because you have scars just like I do." _

Her words return to him, spoken in a moment of vulnerability. There is no denying the level of truth in them. They both have their share of scars to speak of. Except, her scars didn't tell her entire life story. To tell of his scars would be to write his autobiography and it is a painful process, he isn't sure he's ready for.

He isn't sure that's a story he'll ever be ready to tell.

* * *

**Found this in my scraps document (that is undergoing reconstruction and is being transferred, as we speak.) and judging by the dialogue, it was supposed to be a tag to the January chapter of 'Metamorphosis' so...enjoy! **


End file.
